


Keeping Up

by flecksofpoppy



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ficlet, M/M, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-20 02:08:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3632640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flecksofpoppy/pseuds/flecksofpoppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One rainy afternoon, Jean's bullshit catches up with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keeping Up

Marco hasn’t spoken for a full ten minutes, and Jean can’t open his eyes. His head is pressed against a pillow—Marco's pillow, to be precise—and he’s hiding half his face, trying to will himself to sink into the mattress.

He’s never been so sorry for anything in his life.

“You know,” Marco finally says from the doorway where he’s leaning, both arms crossed over his chest, “this is the first time...” His voice catches and he stops abruptly.

Jean still doesn’t speak, trying to breathe evenly and not let the shudder into his throat that so desperately wants to catch there.

He wants to say: _I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry._ But he doesn’t know what to say exactly, since his intuition hasn’t exactly done him any favors today.

“I just...” Marco tries again, forcing out a sigh Jean recognizes as a telltale sign he’s trying not to cry, “never knew that’s what you really thought of me.”

A tear tracks down the side of Jean’s face that’s pressed against the pillow, and he forces himself not to shudder or sniffle. He’s used to Marco helping him, seeing into him and what he’s trying to say, even when he can’t quite get the words out.

But that’s not happening—not this time, because he’d hurt Marco with words that struck a deep chord.

“I could say the same for you,” Marco adds, his voice finally cracking. 

The beams of the wood floor creak as he shifts his weight, and Jean knows the moment has finally come when Marco will leave him. 

It’s been years since college, since they came here, and he hasn’t grown up the way Marco has. More importantly, though: it wasn’t until today that he’d fully comprehended how wide the divide actually is.

“You talk a lot about how pathetic everyone else is, Jean,” Marco continues, “when you haven’t done a single thing for yourself in the last five years.” His voice isn’t malicious now—if it ever even was—and he just sounds sad.

Jean takes a deep breath and forces himself to roll onto his back, pulling away from the pillow that smells too much like Marco for him to continue this conversation and remain sane. He rubs his forearm roughly over his eyes, refusing to acknowledge the tears.

Marco doesn’t try to comfort him, doesn’t try to help. He just waits, staring at Jean with a look that’s disconcertingly final.

“They’re just words,” Jean finally whispers, closing his eyes again. “Stupid.”

“Everything’s ‘stupid’ to you, Jean,” Marco retorts immediately. “Is there a single thing you even like?”

It gives Jean pause; the immediate answer is Marco, but beyond that, he’s unsure. What does he like? 

Well, the bottom line is that he _doesn’t_ like the thought of life without Marco. And he knows he fucked up—fucked up so badly that it might be irreparable.

“I don’t think you’re stupid,” he finally croaks, trying to find his voice. He can’t remember the last time he lost his shit like this, although maybe he needs to. The truth is he’d rip his own heart out of his chest and offer it up to Marco if it’d make him stay, earn his forgiveness. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

He forces himself to sit up. The bed squeaks obnoxiously as he does, and he pulls his knees up to his chest defensively, feeling like a scolded child.

But when he forces himself to look up and meet Marco’s eyes, they’re so surprisingly dry that he feels like he’s going to break.

“Life sucks,” he finally declares, looking back down at his knees. “None of this is what I thought it’d be. And you’re...” He gives a shuddery sigh, but then feels that anger he’s been pushing away reignite. “You’re buying into it!” he finishes, forcing his tears to stop falling and glaring at Marco.

“You didn’t say that before,” Marco says quietly, a look flashing through his eyes of pain so acute, it makes Jean feel dizzy. “And I don’t know if you remember correctly, but you were the one who wanted to come here so badly.”

“Well, what the fuck was I supposed to do?” he demands, hugging his knees tighter to his chest. “Stay in Trost? Scrounge around for a shitty job?”

“You came here for a better life,” Marco retorts calmly.

“No,” Jean corrects, his voice going sotto, “not just that. I came here—”

“Don’t you _dare_ say for me,” Marco interjects, uncrossing his arms to shake a finger angrily at Jean. 

“I wasn’t going to say that,” Jean snaps back. “I was going to say I came here _with_ you, because I didn’t want to...” He takes a deep breath; he’s so shitty at this. “I didn’t want to be apart.”

“Well, there’s no reason we have to be apart,” Marco says coldly, taking a few more steps back. “We can definitely live in separate apartments and hang out when it’s convenient for you.” He says the last part with more vitriol than Jean thought he even possessed; but it’s deserved.

“You kissed me first,” Jean immediately throws out, knowing he shouldn’t say it as soon as the words emerge.

“So what?” Marco challenges. “Who cares about who kissed who first? Who came onto who first? We’re not teenagers, Jean.”

Jean wants to say that he feels like a teenager around Marco sometimes—for both bad and good reasons, like realizing when he’s acting childish, but also to remember what it’s like to be young—and he realizes that ignoring what he wants to say in favor of the horrible shit currently pouring out of his mouth isn’t getting him anywhere.

_Get it together, Kirschstein._

The thing is, Marco doesn’t need him anymore, and that’s pretty terrifying.

“I care about kissing,” Jean replies softly, forcing the words out of himself. He doesn’t want to see Marco’s reaction, since he’s fully aware of how pathetic and desperate he sounds, but he’s got nothing left to lose. 

He stretches his legs out and leans back on the heels of his hands, still staring down into his lap. He feels even more ridiculous acting this way when he realizes he’s wearing a pair of Marco’s dorky sweatpants. They’re the kind with the elastic around the ankles, and Jean’s throat tightens when a memory suddenly surfaces, unbidden, of Marco teasing him one winter’s day about how he needed the extra warmth that the elasticated ankles provided because Jean’s feet were always cold.

They’d been lying in bed together—right after their relationship changed from platonic to something else—buried under a mound of blankets, pretending the outside world didn’t exist.

Even through the years of adolescence and awkward growing pains, both physical and emotional, Jean had always wanted that—to be as close to Marco as possible, even when he’d bragged he didn’t need anyone, going so far as to challenge Marco’s convictions. Nonetheless, as always, Marco had taken it all in stride.

But Jean knows that gets old when you’re pushing thirty and you’re still spouting the same shit. No one wants to lie in bed and tease you about cold feet when you’re a miserable son of a bitch who’s forgotten how to be happy.

He’s surprised, though, when suddenly he feels two fingers gently tip his chin up, and then he realizes that Marco’s standing at the edge of the bed. His eyes are bright now, and a tear slips down his cheek.

“Do you really believe I’m naive?” he whispers. “That my life has been pointless?”

“No,” Jean bites out, gripping Marco’s hand desperately, afraid he’s going to pull away. “I hate this place,” he continues, unable to be anything but honest, “but... please don’t leave me.”

Marco just looks at him for a long few seconds, then finally gives a heavy sigh and sits down on the edge of the bed.

They remain there together, unspeaking for a stretch of time. It’s been raining on and off all afternoon, the raindrops patting against the apartment window; Jean hears thunder rolling far away, probably at least a few miles off yet.

“Are you wearing those dorky sweatpants you always make fun of me for?” Marco asks suddenly, his eyes focused on Jean’s legs.

That’s it, and Jean can’t hold it in. He grasps Marco’s arm and pulls him forward; to his surprise, Marco doesn’t fight it and just goes where directed.

Jean rolls onto his side so that they’re facing each other, and Marco gives another shaky sigh, reaching out to run his thumb along Jean’s cheekbone.

“You’ve never stopped being an asshole,” he murmurs, but his eyes are soft. “You’ve just never been one to me. Not really, until today.”

“I don’t think you’re naive,” Jean says, unable to keep the shudder out of his voice.

“I’m not going to leave you,” Marco breathes finally, pulling Jean closer. “Not unless you want me to. But you can’t...” His voice catches again, and it breaks into something between a sob and a bark. “You can’t say things like that.”

“Okay,” Jean whispers against Marco’s chest where he’s pushed his face, clinging for dear life. “I’m sorry.”

Marco gives a wry laugh, but Jean knows it’s not bitter this time; it’s just that same laugh Marco started giving when Jean would say stupid, immature things. “I think that’s the second time you’ve apologized for anything in the entire time we’ve known each other.”

“I apologized for kissing you back,” Jean corrects immediately, pulling back at little to meet Marco’s eyes. “I wasn’t actually sorry for that, though,” he says, a little smile pulling at his lips, before settling into a grim expression again. “But I am for this.”

“The world is messed up, Jean,” Marco says, smoothing his hand into Jean’s hair and pressing his cheek against Jean’s forehead. “But we’re on the same side—I’ll always be on your side.”

“Yeah,” Jean agrees simply.

“It’s raining,” Marco remarks as the rain starts back up against the window pane. “And your feet are cold.”

Jean gives a weak laugh, but the tension’s left his body as he closes his eyes for a completely different reason this time.

“Jean?”

“Yeah?” Jean replies sleepily.

“I’d never leave you alone, even if we never kissed again.”

Jean takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, gripping the fabric of Marco’s sweater tightly. “But I like things better this way,” he whispers, “with the kissing.”

A sense of relief washes through him as Marco pushes his leg between Jean’s, curling close. “We’ll be okay.”

“As long as we’re together,” Jean finishes.

They sigh in unison, and Jean is content to just lie there and listen as Marco’s breathing slowly evens out; the rain always makes him sleepy.

But maybe it’s time to figure out something that makes him happy in addition to kissing Marco; maybe it’s time to grow up, because he doesn’t want to be left behind.

“Good night,” he whispers, nuzzling Marco’s face. “I’ll see you when you wake up.”


End file.
